First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Children’s Books in 2020

Published in this ebook edition in 2020

HarperCollins Children’s Books is a division of

HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd,

HarperCollins Publishers

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London SE1 9GF

The HarperCollins Children’s Books website address is

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Text copyright © Tom Mitchell 2020

Illustrations copyright © Euan Cook 2020

Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020

Tom Mitchell and Euan Cook assert the moral right to be identified as the author and illustrator of this work respectively.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008292263

Ebook Edition © Jan 2020 ISBN: 9780008292270

Version: 2020-01-21

To Mum and Dad

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Map

Part One: Tuesday

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Part Two: Wednesday

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Part Three: Thursday

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Part Four: Friday

Chapter 43

Keep Reading …

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Books by Tom Mitchell

About the Publisher

Map

Snowmageddon
Heathrow Airport, Greater London

If my journey across America taught me anything, it’s that I’m no hero. I worry too much for one thing.

And so spending the day before the flight watching Top Ten Plane Crashes on YouTube wasn’t the best idea. And, being driven to Heathrow through the gloom, I could’ve done without Amy, my sister, miming explosions and mouthing booms of fiery air.

On the M4, in order to stop worrying about the plane breaking apart over the Atlantic or imagining the view of the endless sea roaring up to my window, I tried reigniting my excitement about what waited for me in America:

FORTUNE AND GLORY.

(For real and for sure. 100 per cent. No sweat.)

Background: I’m not saying I’m mad about Marvel but here are the facts. I’m fourteen and I’ve got a Spider-Man bedspread. (Not many people know this.) My walls are covered in Spider-Man posters and the password to all my accounts is PeterParker62. I’d probably get a Spider-Man tattoo, something subtle on my shoulder, if I didn’t know for a fact that Dad would laser it off himself, Cyclops-style, as soon as he found out.

I’m not one of those obsessives, though, so don’t judge me. Part of the problem is that I live in Somerset, where, according to Google, the last exciting thing happened in 1998.

What I’m trying to do here is help you understand the mind-blowing excitement experienced when I received an email from Marvel Studios saying I (me, Jacob Clark) had won the chance to be an extra in a new movie shooting in Hollywood, and, wait for it, with all my flights and accommodation paid for.

There was a worrying moment when I thought Mum and Dad wouldn’t let me go, like with the Year Seven Adventure Weekend after Mum had read about sheep ticks, but as soon as the local newspaper rang to ask if they could report my success they were sold. We FaceTimed the grandparents and everything.

‘My son in a film,’ Dad said more than once in a weird tone of voice I hadn’t often heard.

This wasn’t all my birthdays and Christmases coming at once but everybody’s birthdays and Christmases for the rest of eternity.

The worry, aside from my plane maybe crashing, was that I didn’t know which superhero the film would be about. Supposedly it was all top secret. Twitter didn’t have a clue. Amy kept saying it’d be ‘Idiot Boy’ but the joke was on her because there’s no superhero called that.

Inside the terminal, a huge screen, listing destinations I’d only heard of in Geography, said my flight to Chicago was on time and leaving from Gate B41. Dad reckoned I’d not been booked on a direct flight to LA because that would have made the ticket more expensive. (He’d not left the country since the disastrous Calais ‘booze cruise’ all the way back when I was in primary school – a fact he was weirdly proud of.)

We headed straight for security because there’d been a crash near Swindon, which left no time for messing about. Dad handed over my suitcase. It was pink and had, in glittery white writing, the word PRINCESS across its front. Back home, pulling the bag from the attic and coughing only slightly from the dust, Mum had said there was no reason why boys couldn’t have pink suitcases and it was perfectly fine and, anyway, there’d be no losing it.

‘It’s 2020, Jacob,’ she’d said, and although she was right I didn’t know what the year had to do with anything.

She’d also said the Princess was exactly the right size; it could hold all my clothes and still qualify as ‘carry-on’. Proper travellers never bothered putting their bags in the hold these days supposedly.

‘It’s the internet for you,’ said Mum.

(She used the internet to explain a lot of things.)

Dad shook my hand and pulled me in for a hug. He ruffled my hair, instructing me to stay safe. Mum had her puppy eyes when she squeezed me and said she was missing her little soldier already.

As she released me she handed over what I thought was a note with emergency numbers and instructions about what to do if I ripped my jeans etc. She closed her hand over mine and put a finger to her lips. As I shifted the paper to my pockets I saw it was American money – a bill with ‘100’ in the top corner. My imagination exploded with fireworks of possibility. How much Marvel merch would that buy?

(Answer: not much. But it didn’t matter because the studio was also giving me spending money.)

Mum read from her phone a list of things I shouldn’t do:

1 Lose my passport.

2 Miss the plane.

3 Agree to carry things for strangers, especially friendly men with beards.

4 Eat or drink (American) things if I wasn’t sure what they were.

5 Loiter.

6 Flush the plane toilet without the seat being down.

7 Forget to exercise my legs and get deep vein thrombosis.

8 Allow myself to be distracted when leaving the plane.

9 Lose the instructions about the connecting flight.

10 Miss the connecting flight.

‘Understood,’ I said. ‘Thanks, Mum.’

‘Do you want me to write them down for you? I’ll write them down.’

I told Mum that it was fine and she didn’t need to write them down.

‘What was number five, then?’ asked Amy, suddenly present.

‘Loiter?’ I asked.

Mum beamed. Dad nodded. Amy yawned.

‘And make sure you ring as soon as you land,’ they said in stereo.

I crossed my heart and hoped to die, which I instantly regretted.

It was Amy’s turn to say goodbye.

She chewed gum and Mum told her to take her earphones out, for heaven’s sake.

‘Hope you don’t crash,’ she said, smiling.

‘Amy!’ said Dad.

‘What?’ She shrugged. ‘I do. What’s wrong with that? It’d be bad to say I wanted him to crash.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘Have you seen the weather in Chicago, by the way? It looks intense.’

Suddenly her phone was in her hand and she was holding its blinding screen to my face. I couldn’t take in the detail before Mum had fussed it away but what I did read was a single word: Snowmageddon.

Not ‘Paradise’ or ‘Perfect Landing Weather’.

No.

Snowmageddon.

‘Is that even a word?’ I asked.

‘Ignore your sister,’ said Mum as my chest buzzed with anxiety bees. She brushed my fringe from my forehead. ‘I can’t believe I’m putting my little boy on a plane. On his own.’ She turned to Dad. ‘Why don’t we all buy a ticket? We could put it on the credit card. When was the last time we had a holiday? What about my wellbeing?’

She looked around frantically for someone she could buy a ticket from.

‘Remember Calais,’ said Dad to Mum, before turning his Dad-stare on me. ‘Don’t miss your connecting flight. You hear? Don’t. Miss. Your. Connecting. Flight. I don’t want to have to drive to Chicago to rescue you.’ I frowned. Amy yawned again. ‘You know what I mean.’

I didn’t. But I did know that I wasn’t a kid and that everything would be 100 per cent fine.

‘I’m not a kid,’ I said, sounding about as convincing as a nativity play. ‘Everything will be a thousand per cent fine.’

‘Just make sure you stay safe!’ said Mum, her smile looking like it had been branded on to her face. ‘Speak to a police officer if you get lost.’

‘And don’t miss that connecting flight!’ added Dad.

‘You’re Welcome, Princess’
Chicago, Illinois

I missed the connecting flight.

(But I swear it wasn’t my fault.)

A woman who looked like she sold make-up at Superdrug walked the aisle before the plane landed and wrote out what I had to do. It was all very straightforward, she said. She spoke with a British accent, which steadied my trembling. A bit.

(I’d like to have the power not to get worked up about stuff like this. Maybe ‘power’ is not the right word. Maybe I mean ‘confidence’?)

She said I’d have to go through security again because ‘that’s how they do things in the States’, sigh. I’d also have to pass IMMIGRATION before getting to the connecting flight. Then I should follow the arrows pointing towards … CONNECTING FLIGHTS. I also had a couple of forms to fill out, which she could help me with after she’d tidied the cabin, and had I seen the vomiting baby? What a flight!

‘So, in conclusion, all very straightforward,’ she said, sighing again.

Even though it didn’t sound very straightforward, I nodded and said thanks. She was not only cabin crew but also adult – the combination meant she knew what she was talking about. Also, she smelt like a movie star or, at least, what I imagined one would smell like. Sweet and flowery.

I’ve always trusted nice-smelling people.

(Arrows would be the same in America, wouldn’t they? They wouldn’t mean the opposite? Because they drive on the other side?)

The plane descended. The clouds broke. America spread out like a tablecloth. But one from a black-and-white film. Because Amy had been right about the snow – it covered everything and what it didn’t cover was concrete. There were no skyscrapers, no yellow taxis. The US of my imagination had looked more exciting. Here there was grey. And there was white. And that was about it.

Snowmageddon.

The captain thanked us for flying British Airways. He suggested we wrap up warm and also made a joke about the runway looking like an ice rink, which didn’t help my nerves. Or those of the suit sitting next to me.

(She swore. And apologised for swearing. And said she’d have had more wine if she’d known about the ice. Because she didn’t want to die sober, she said. And then apologised for saying all this to a kid.)

I cleared my throat. ‘That’s fine. I’m fourteen, so …’

But, anyway, like I said, we survived.

A man with a baseball cap and a huge grin helped me pull my pink suitcase out of the overhead locker. I felt awkward and when I thanked him he said, ‘You’re welcome, Princess.’

(I’d never been called that before.)

After we landed in Chicago, without crashing, I switched to school trip mode. The phone-checking, elbow-pumping crowd guided me to where I needed to go. Even though I’d been in the air for eight hours, the time difference meant it was still early morning. I gripped a dozen scraps of folded paper, all with the same details of the connecting flight: BA 1058, leaving from Gate H15 in Terminal 3.

And I didn’t drop them once.

Not even when pulling my phone out to WhatsApp the family group chat.

I’m safe. It’s snowy.

Dad was first to reply.

What’s America like? You missed the connecting fight yet?

Ignoring the spelling mistake, I looked around.

Bit like England, I replied. Smells weird. Connecting flight not left yet.

Glove you so much. Can’t believe you’re there on your gown, messaged Mum. Remember my glasses. Promise to stay safe.

I didn’t know what she meant about ‘glasses’ but guessed she was hitting the ‘g’ key when she didn’t mean to. Autocorrect did the rest. Classic Mum.

Promise, I replied.

Flights over land get NIGHTMARE turbulence, messaged Amy.

She shouldn’t be allowed to be a member of the group. She should be expelled from the family. I’d make this point when I got back home.

I walked a long corridor. At its end a genuine American police officer took my passport and travel forms. From under a heavy moustache and behind a Perspex screen, he asked why I was visiting the States and where my parents were. His voice sounded like a dog’s bark. An angry dog. A dog that chases children around playgrounds.

‘I’ve won a competition to be in a superhero film and my parents are in England.’ He glanced up from his tiny battered computer screen. I’d caught his focus. And you don’t want to be catching the focus of American cops at passport control. Airport rule number one. ‘Movie.’ I cleared my throat. ‘My parents are probably asleep. The time difference. I don’t know. Dad sometimes stays up late, eating cheese sandwiches and watching violent films. Or is it morning there?’

(When I get nervous I talk too much.)

‘Are you trying to be funny, sir?’

First ‘princess’, now ‘sir’. But the novelty was overshadowed by the 100 per cent American cop stare focused my way. I’d seen this look in films. It wasn’t one that led to something nice like being given a puppy or a burger.

‘No, sir,’ I said, and it was all I could say.

He got me to put my fingers on some kind of scanner. He swivelled something like a webcam and told me to look into it. Did this happen to everyone? Or was I a suspected criminal?

‘Which superhero?’ he asked.

‘Sorry?’

‘Which superhero movie?’

‘They won’t tell me.’

The cop stared a bit longer, and then stamped my passport.

‘You want to know the best superhero to come out of Chicago?’ Was he testing me? Before a word could emerge, my brain shrinking to a walnut, the man answered. ‘Ghost Rider. You get yourself down to Kids on the Fly, you might have a pleasant surprise. You hear me?’ I nodded. I did hear him. I just didn’t understand him … He slid my passport back through the gap in the plastic. ‘Nice luggage, by the way.’

Kids on the Fly? What did that mean?

I pulled the Princess past (regular, English) arrows pointing to the part of the airport with all the shops and restaurants. And when I arrived I let out a long breath. Bright lights and dull travellers surrounded me and my breathing. I was almost there.

Go, Jacob! You can do this! PMA!

Good news: the LA flight was listed on the big screen, even if some later ones had been cancelled ‘due to adverse weather’.

Bad news: I had half an hour to kill before the gate even opened.

But there! A signpost! And one of the arms had ‘Kids on the Fly’ written on it. Wasn’t that exactly what the police officer had said? Hadn’t he also said that I’d have a nice surprise, and, like, immediately after he’d been talking about Ghost Rider, who is, actually, a sick superhero – don’t let the movies fool you.

I walked past huge 4K TVs flashing feeds of worried weathermen and whirling storm graphics. Past travellers wearing the thick coats and the concerned faces of Arctic explorers. And every time I began to worry that maybe I’d missed ‘Kids on the Fly’, there came another sign with another arrow.

Maybe there’d be some graphic novels or a place to buy a baseball cap with ‘Ghost Rider’ written on it or some Metropolis candy or …

By now half an hour had gone: the gate was opening. If the place wasn’t round the next corner, I decided, I’d turn back or else I might as well carry on walking all the way to LA. Giving up was the correct decision, the adult choice.

(Like an idiot, I carried on walking.)

Nicolas Cage

‘Kids on the Fly’ was a soft-play area. A man who looked like he’d be more at home in a wrestling ring rose from a stool. He held up a hand and told me that I was too old by about ten years and he sat back down.

Behind him happy toddlers rolled around in a paddling pool filled with plastic balls.

‘Hi. Yes. But I was told there was something to do with superheroes here, please?’

My voice had never sounded so small. The man stared at me. Maybe staring was more of a thing in the US. There is a lot of staring in American films and TV shows. Think about it.

Slowly he rotated his body, his bum squeaking against the plastic stool, a noise that in any other situation would have me sniggering into my hand. He pointed at the wall.

For a second I thought he wanted me to read the fire evacuation procedures. Then I realised he was indicating the signed picture of Nicolas Cage that hung next to them.

‘Signed,’ he said.

‘That’s fantastic,’ I replied. ‘So sick.’

It wasn’t fantastic or sick. It was a signed picture of Nicolas Cage. He’d played Ghost Rider in two movies. He wasn’t even dressed as the character in this picture. It was his face.

‘I mean …’ said the man.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Really. Thank you.’

The stool man squinted at me like he suspected I was being sarcastic, which is more Amy’s deal.

Back the way I’d come, a black screen of doom was flashing the warning ‘final call’ against the LA flight all of a sudden. Nooooooo. Pulling the Princess behind me, I sprinted for it.

It was at this moment that I first thought I might miss my connection. It didn’t feel great, to be honest. Dad’s last words haunted me. He’d been fairly clear about his preference concerning me catching the plane.

A glance at another passing screen now told me that the gate was closing. They must have been rushing the boarding process because of the snow.

I was so near. I was past all the shops and restaurants. I was in departures proper. People gripping boarding cards queued hopefully in roped-off areas. Huge windows showed tiny vehicles down below scraping the ever-falling snow off everything. There were planes outside. Big ones. Lined up, waiting for something, waiting for me.

My muscles stung, my breathing choked, but the finishing line was in sight – I experienced that final burst of adrenalin you get when the end of double PE is close.

I was the Flash, travelling so fast that I was invisible.

What gate’s that? A square sign stuck out from the wall saying TWO. Push on. I’m already passing THREE. Round the corner will be FOUR. I can do this! Jacob FTW!

A crackling Tannoy announced the cancellation of a flight to Boston. Another message came immediately after – a flight to Seattle was off too. Had I missed an announcement? Had they called my name? I thought they were meant to call your name?

I needed to get to Gate Fifteen. I was at Five. The angles of the pentagonal corridor meant I couldn’t see round the corner, obviously, but I knew my numbers. I’ve always been good at maths. I was headed in the right direction, whether I made it or not was a question of time. So I upped the pace.

And I reckon I was operating at full running capacity.

I turned in the direction of Gate Fifteen. My throat was hot and sore. My heart beat in my ears. The corridor had emptied a little. Maybe everyone who’d needed to get on a plane had got on a plane.

Apart from me.

At Gate Fifteen there was nobody and nothing. I could see this all the way from Gate Eleven. But even if there had been a scrum of travellers, I kind of knew I’d be disappointed. Spidey-senses. The whole experience had been leading up to it. A huge American prank at my expense.

It was Dad’s fault. This was always going to happen from the moment he’d warned me not to miss the flight. Some things are fated.

Gate Fifteen: plastic seats screwed to the ground. And a desk. And behind the desk a pair of grey doors. Closed. The only sign of human activity was an abandoned empty water bottle lying on its side.

A whispered ‘no’ escaped my mouth.

There were windows too. And through the windows there was a huge plane. And snow fell over the huge plane and I felt like I might throw up. Because this was my huge plane. And my huge plane was taxiing through drifting snowflakes and away from the terminal and away from me. Inside, there would be a single empty seat. My empty seat.

I’d missed the connecting flight.

I was stuck in Chicago.

And it was because of Nicolas Cage.

Dad was going to go crazy.

Proactive Man

Two hours later, I was freezing my everything off standing in a queue outside a bus station in downtown Chicago. The cold wasn’t the worst thing: I had this acidic feeling that I’d made a galactic mistake in leaving the airport. The kind of mistake that couldn’t be measured in being grounded.

There’d been a queue at BA customer services, the departure screens overflowing with red warnings of cancelled journeys. A voice said there would be no flights for twenty-four hours and all affected BA passengers would be put up in a hotel. The queue grumbled.

‘Are you kidding me?’ said a man with a massive beard.

I’d grab a burger. That’s what I’d do. As soon as my accommodation was sorted. America. They do things differently here. I mean that was already obvious. The toilet stall doors didn’t reach the floor for one thing.

It’ll be fiiine. Dad doesn’t even have to know, I told myself.

Eventually I got to the front of the airport queue and arrangements were arranged.

Maybe if, walking away from the desk, I hadn’t looked up, I wouldn’t have seen the huge sign saying TRANSPORTATION SOLUTIONS. But I did. I couldn’t check into my hotel for ages, so I joined another queue of moaning people, those waiting for solutions to their transportation problems, and I wondered whether I should call home.

Thoughts:

If I go to the Holiday Inn, I’ll sit in a tiny room until Snowmageddon ends. When I finally get to Hollywood I’ll have missed my scene and all I’ll have left to do is to jump back on a return flight home.

Or …

I could be PROACTIVE like …

PROACTIVE MAN. CAPTAIN PROACTIVE. THE PROACTIVATOR.

‘How much is a train to LA?’ I asked in my most self-assured voice, which didn’t sound too self-assured if I’m honest.

The transportation solutions woman wore a smile as fake as her fingernails.

‘Two hundred and eighty-five dollars.’

Right. I had a hundred.

‘Is there a bus?’

I heard a long sigh from the American woman queuing behind me.

‘There’s the Greyhound. That’d get you there. Express route. You wouldn’t even have to change. The roads are fine. It’s eighty-five dollars. And you’ll need another five to take the CTA to the bus station. Greyhound don’t leave from here.’

I handed over the hundred-dollar bill. It didn’t feel great. Especially as Mum was likely at some point to ask what I’d spent her money on.

‘How old are you, honey? You’ve got to be fifteen to travel unaccompanied.’

I cleared my throat. I’d never lied to a proper official before. Only once when I told a gardener that it wasn’t me who’d run across his lawn. And this official was American. What if she asked to see my passport? What if I got thrown in jail? American jail. With gangs and tattoos and orange jumpsuits.

‘Sixteen,’ I said. ‘And British.’

(Only half was untrue. A 50 per cent lie. Not even a full fib.)

And that was that. She didn’t even look up. She took my money. As I watched her quick fingernails I tried not to chunder. Because, as I told my stomach, I was sixteen in lots of ways. I mean, there were so going to be sixteen-year-olds less grown-up than me. For example, my legs were decently hairy.

‘How long does it take to get to California?’ I asked all innocently, which maybe I should have done before handing over the cash.

‘Two days,’ she said, slipping my money into an out-of-sight till and passing me ten dollars back. ‘You arrive at nine ten in the morning on Thursday. Sometimes they even arrive ahead of schedule. You’ll need to show photo ID and proof of age to your driver. Have a great journey.’

Two days! A double tap of bad news to the head. And on a bus too! There’d better be a socket for my phone.

Don’t cry, don’t cry.

Think: the schedule said that the scene was being shot midday on Thursday. Today was meant to be arrival and ‘settling in’. For tomorrow, Wednesday, the plan was shopping in Beverly Hills. And, I mean, I didn’t even like shopping. Or hills.

Thursday: they’d be able to pick me up from the Greyhound station in LA in the morning and get me to the studio in time. Easily. And I’d still have the studio tour to look forward to later on in the afternoon. It was fine. Really.

To try to ignore the weird turning of my insides, I remembered that time in Year Nine when Sean Williams was on TV. Bristol City were playing in the FA Cup and the camera showed the crowd. There he was. Looking moist in a bobble hat. But then the head teacher mentioned it in assembly. Sean’s picture was in the newsletter. Sixth-form girls spoke to him. For real. Imagine that. The dream.

What would happen when they saw me in a movie? It’d be on the school website and everything. Forget top grades or goals scored – I’d be a hero. I’d have an entourage, and I could pick out my table in the school canteen and they’d let me skip the queue and never again would I worry about detentions because of late homework. Even Amy would be obliged to acknowledge my awesomeness. I’d get a cool nickname like ‘Famous Jacob’. ‘FJ’. ‘Facob’. I mean, at the very least people would know my name.

The proof of age thing was a problem. But if the driver didn’t let me on the bus, I could just go back to the hotel, safe in the knowledge that at least I’d tried. And the weather would have to clear at some point. That’s what weather does. Unless you’re in northern England.

When I thanked the woman for the tickets her mouth said ‘you’re welcome’ and ‘have a nice day’, but her eyes said ‘not long until the end of my shift’.

Questions?

After taking a ‘Blue Line’ CTA train to a place called Clinton, I walked for ten minutes through real American streets with real American snow piled high. At some point an American must have gone crazy with a shovel around here. American cars splattered sleet on passing pedestrians, more coat than people, who swore, and nobody paid me any attention, which was great.

(That’s a lie – some dude on a bike shouted, ‘Nice suitcase.’)

I finally arrived at the bus station. A man with an afro stood behind a desk.

‘I’m John? How can I help you?’

Everything he said sounded like a question, which made our conversation really confusing.

‘Is this the right place for a bus to Los Angeles, please?’

‘Buses all over the country from here, sir?’

Was that a yes or no? Before I could work out how best to ask again, he continued. ‘You want a ticket to LA? How old are you? I can’t be selling any tickets without proof of age or an unaccompanied minors form?’

‘I’ve got the ticket already,’ I said, struggling to pull it from my coat pocket. ‘I’m sixteen and British. Thanking you.’

John stared.

‘I don’t want to see the ticket? I thought you looked young, that’s all? No problem? The LA service leaves at 11.05? That’s just over one hour’s time? Boarding begins twenty minutes before the departure? Tie this round your suitcase handle and hold on to the receipt? Hand your luggage to the driver on boarding? I’ve always wanted to see London? Is it super sweet?’

I nodded. I thought this was the safest tactic.

The waiting room was empty. A TV played in the corner, warning of ‘severe weather’ and ‘unprecedented disruption’. My phone’s battery was already down to 27 per cent because why wouldn’t it be? I messaged Mum.

Problem with plane but now on bus, so everything’s okay! LOL.

(I couldn’t contact Marvel because I didn’t have their number. The only arrangement made was a promise of someone at LAX holding a sign with my name on it.)

Three seconds later, my phone started vibrating. Mum. And she didn’t even say ‘hi’.

‘What do you mean there was a problem with the plane? Where are you?’ I could hear rumbling in the background. It wasn’t thunder; it was worse – it was Dad. ‘Your father wants to know if you missed the connection.’

‘I’m on a bus. Like when we went to Bath for that wedding but the train was cancelled. It’s fine,’ I said.

There was a rustling sound like Mum had dropped the phone in a bucket of leaves. (I don’t think she had.)

Dad’s voice barked from the other end. ‘Did you miss the connection, Jacob? Tell me the truth. Don’t lie to your father.’

‘There aren’t any planes flying,’ I replied, which was a clever response because it was true. ‘It’s very snowy here but everything’s fine. I’m on a bus and I’ll be in Hollywood soon. I’d better go because I haven’t got much battery left.’

‘Stay safe,’ commanded Dad. ‘And don’t go leaving the bus. Not even for the toilet.’

Before saying goodbye, Mum made me promise to keep hydrated, which was contradicting Dad if you think about it.

I turned the phone off. Parents: my Kryptonite. I sat and tried to think about the movie to make myself feel better. Visualisation. Maybe this (sitting in a downtown bus station) was what it was like to be an extra? I tried imagining being on set, of being introduced to genuine Hollywood actors, but my thoughts always returned to the conversation with home. My lies hung over me like a snow cloud.

The front doors snapped open and a girl, who looked old enough to drive, ran through to John’s desk. A ponytail of dark braids flashed from a blue baseball cap and across her shoulders. She moved like she was training for a marathon and couldn’t stop because it would ruin the workout. But this wasn’t the weirdest thing – she held a box wrapped in brown paper. I say ‘held’ but she was more hugging it. It was the perfect shape to contain a football, although that probably wasn’t what she had in there because Americans, like Dad, don’t ‘get’ soccer.

I pretended to scratch my neck and turned to watch. She was all energy, her muscles jerking. She asked for a single on the first bus to Los Angeles. There was something about her face that suggested you’d not want to upset her. Or, at least, that she wanted you to think that you’d not want to upset her.

‘How old are you, miss?’ asked John. ‘Minors need a letter—’

She interrupted him. ‘Seventeen. Here’s my ID.’

She paid. Her ticket cost less than mine but there was no way I was ever going to complain. She asked where the restroom was and disappeared in its direction. She was either really nervous or really confident. I stopped thinking about her (after ten minutes) to return to worrying about being sat alone in a Chicago bus station.

Soon, but not massively, a big blue coach pulled up outside, its engine shaking the ground. It was like one you might take for school trips, the type where we’d all pile on to the back seats before the teachers could stop us.

‘There’s your coach, sir?’ said John.

‘Is it?’ I asked.

‘It is?’

I saw LOS ANGELES above the driver’s window, so decided that John wasn’t asking me a question but stating a fact. I stood up. I turned the Princess on to her wheels and stepped towards the exit. I checked my pockets for my wallet and my phone. Neither was there. Both objects lay on the chair where I’d been sitting.

I stepped silently to grab them. The Princess toppled over, like she was jetlagged and had fallen asleep. There was a bang from the direction of the restroom and out came the girl, running and saying, ‘This my ride?’

And I would have warned her about the resting Princess, ankle-high and pink, but she moved too quickly. The parcel she held must have obscured her view or something. Her feet struck the bag and she tripped, flying through the air and crunching her face and arms against the front doors, which stood unopened and impassive. Her parcel, a perfect cube in brown paper, bounced away like a die.

‘Ugh,’ I said, my brain glitching. This wasn’t good.

She yelped. And the noise crackled through the space.

‘Are you okay, ma’am?’ asked John, standing and definitely asking a question.

Frozen at the chair, holding my wallet and phone, I hated the snow and especially hated Marvel, but only briefly, for not putting me on a direct flight.

‘Whose pink bag is this?’ she asked, standing up and cradling her wrist and, somehow, grabbing her box like a squirrel finding the last acorn of autumn.

At least she hadn’t died, I thought as I raised a hand.

‘Sorry?’ I said.

(The whole question thing was contagious.)

‘You’ve broken my arm. Open the door for me. I mean …’

She glared/winced as I did what I was told. Cold air rushed in like it needed the toilet. John asked if she required first aid, but she ignored him.

‘Great job, Princess,’ she said, stepping out, leaving John and me gawping from the waiting room.

‘You think she’s okay?’ he asked. ‘She really slammed into those doors?’

‘I hope so?’ I replied. ‘I don’t know?’

Because I didn’t. Not about her and not about anything.

‘Hey, I like your bag, though,’ said John. ‘Is that a Brit thing?’

Girl Trouble

There was a sudden queue: all moaning desperation to get on the coach, all stomping sneakers in the slush, all saying, ‘We’re freezing here.’ Most looked alone and in their twenties or thirties – old. There was also a dog running about, snapping at snowflakes. I watched him for a while and briefly forgot everything but, in particular, my need for photo ID … and the broken girl.

And, as my grandad used to say, it was colder than the hinges of hell.

‘If you’ve got a luggage receipt, your luggage is going in. If you don’t, you need one and not from me. Understand, yo?’ said the driver. In return came shouting and barking. ‘And somebody needs to shut that mutt up.’

The queue shrank as the bus filled, but there was a growing stack of bags piled on the sidewalk like a local luggage shop had exploded.

The driver’s mouth blew tiny clouds as he spoke, reminding me of the cold.

‘Ticket and ID, please.’ I handed over my ticket and passport. ‘Is this your bag?’ he said, nodding towards the Princess but not looking up from my documents.

‘I’ve a baggage receipt,’ I said and he nodded, focusing on the passport page with my photo, my name and my date of birth.

‘Thank you.’

Would he have noticed my age if the dog, which had spent the last fifteen minutes barking, hadn’t cocked its leg against the luggage? I don’t know.

‘Come on!’ he shouted. ‘Whose dog is that? John! John! Give me a hand, John! There’s a dog dirtying the baggage again, man.’

The driver shoved my ticket and passport into my chest and went for the dog.

Standing at the very front of the coach, I couldn’t see any spare seats. Everybody had their heads bowed, immersed in phones. I walked the line. The forest of heads thinned out. I could see a free window seat. And I could also see who I’d be sitting next to.

I mean … there were literally no other free seats. It didn’t matter. So I ignored the fluttering in my chest. Because it wasn’t like I was choosing to sit next to her.

Her arms rested on top of that same parcel that had gone tumbling in the waiting room. She cradled her right wrist, the fingers of her left gently kneading its skin. (Guilt klaxon.) Her neck was sharply angled and she stared out of the window. She bit into her bottom lip. This was the same girl who’d stormed into the waiting area but with all the worry turned up.

‘Excuse me,’ I said, voice as steady as jelly, like I’d never talked to a girl before, which I had. ‘Sorry, but is this seat free?’

‘You’ve got to be kidding me,’ she said.

After I’d managed to cram my coat into an overhead locker, she’d swung her legs to the side, expending the minimum effort required to let me pass. I’d excused myself and sat down so very quietly.

‘I think you’ve broken my wrist, by the way,’ she said, sending waves of resentment from her eyes to my face. ‘Like for real. I’m crippled for life.’

‘Do you want me to ask the driver if there’s any wrist medicine?’

This was a fair request, even if it made me sound like a primary-school kid.

‘Do you want me to ask the driver if there’s any wrist medicine?’ she repeated, putting on the lamest British accent you could imagine. ‘What’s wrist medicine?’

She also relaxed all the muscles in her face and rolled her eyes into their sockets, making like she thought I was an idiot, which I’m not.

I turned to look at the snow. It was, like, at least five times warmer than my neighbour.

Was it snowing back in England? Was it snowing outside my bedroom window? On to next door’s black Citroën? Had Mum and Dad got back from work? Was Amy getting told off for having her earphones in? It was like knowing a film you loved was playing without you in a distant cinema. Life went on back home, in those familiar patterns, because that’s what life does. I guess, in that way, being on holiday was like being dead. Everyone makes a fuss about it but ultimately it’s boring.

‘Are you for real?’ she asked. ‘I’m not joking. Are you? For real?’

‘Yes,’ I said, not meeting her eyes but also not wanting to be hassled for the whole journey. ‘I am for real. One hundred per cent real, that’s me.’

‘That accent! I mean.’

I nodded, even though it wasn’t me with an accent – it was her.

She’d tripped over my bag – okay – but if she refused to get her wrist looked at, that wasn’t my fault. And, anyway, it wasn’t as if there was bone breaking skin or blood pumping out.

(If only she could regenerate – that’s got to be the best superpower; you’d be invincible. Any wound: instantly healed. People talk about choosing between flying and invisibility but, for me, being able to heal wounds is up there. Check out Wolverine and Deadpool.)

As soon as the bus chugged out of Chicago’s suburbs there wasn’t much to look at. There were USB ports for phones between the two seats in front of us and that was something, at least. Although … my cable was buried in the Princess and I didn’t get the feeling that the driver would be too keen to go rooting through the luggage compartment.

There was one weird moment, which made sense later, and it happened at a traffic light. The bus had pulled up to a red. Alongside us a black pick-up truck rolled to a stop. There was no snow on the vehicle at all, like its metal was sending out heatwaves that melted flakes before they could settle.

The driver’s window descended and a man with an enormous white moustache looked up – not at the bus, but at me. He locked my eyes in a stare that was only broken when the lights changed and the bus started forward. For some reason I shuddered.

Americans sure are weird, I thought.

At some point I must have dozed off. Because, later, I definitely woke up and when I did there were three massive shocks:

1 The bus wasn’t moving.

2 Two police officers stood at the front. One had a microphone and the other held an iPad, its screen facing forward.

3 The girl’s head rested against my shoulder. Still wearing that baseball cap, bright blue with an orange C above the brim.

I didn’t move. Not a muscle of a muscle. A bit because of the police but mainly: the girl. What would she say if I woke her? Had I ever had one fall asleep on me before? A girl?

I didn’t know. But what I did know were all the feelings sparked off by the experience. Mad and confusing. Like a talking horse. My mind was a muddled soup of fear and longing. It could only be straightened out through getting back to sleep. Which was kind of a problem in the current situation.

Her head was warm. I could feel it through my top. And even though she was sleeping, she still gripped that box. It must contain something pretty valuable like … silver coins, for instance, or a really expensive puppy (cryogenically frozen).

‘Thank you for your time, ladies and gentlemen. We won’t hold you for long. We’re stopping all buses going through the Champaign region on account of reports of a dangerous runaway minor. My colleague is holding an iPad with a recent image of the suspect. We would ask that you study this as we walk the aisle. Please raise your hand if you recognise the individual or if you have any questions. Thank you for your attention.’

The microphone squawked as he handed it back to the driver. A burst of rock music shook through the coach before the driver managed to turn it off. Both officers made to walk forward at the same time. Their shoulders banged and there was a split second of awkwardness, which didn’t help create an appearance of professionalism.

To begin with I was confused by the word ‘minor’. I’d thought, you see, that he’d meant ‘miner’ and imagined some tiny guy with a hard hat and pickaxe running about. As soon as I saw the iPad’s picture, though, I understood my mistake.

Because it was so her. The girl was the girl, if you know what I mean. The girl with her head on my shoulder. Wanted by the police and everything. She probably had stolen gold in the box. Or, like, rare butterflies. I don’t know.

What should I do? There was that time in Chemistry when Al Philips held Emma Ashton’s pencil case over the Bunsen burner and even though I saw, I never told Dr Adiga. The whole class were put in a lunchtime detention and Emma’s parents came into school to see the deputy head the next day.

I’d had anxiety dreams about that situation for, like, months afterwards. And we’re talking about Dr Adiga, who everyone joked wore glasses because he couldn’t control his pupils. Not two American police officers with belts that contained all kinds of devices meant to hurt and control you, not forgetting their actual guns.

What had she done? When I’d seen her back at the station the first thing I’d thought was how tense she looked. Like the way she gritted her teeth. On edge. Focused like a criminal.

I’d definitely never had a criminal fall asleep on me before. I’d have thought it would be less comfortable.

Bad Memes
Champaign, Illinois

I could literally feel my intestines tighten as the police approached. I’d seen enough American movies and TV shows to know what happened to snitches.

Stitches.

But, really, I should put my hand up. And right now. Why cover for a stranger? The police called her ‘dangerous’. That doesn’t sound good. That sounds painful.

(But could a monster feel this warm?)

Should I wake her? Let her deal with it? I don’t even know her name. Look, what’s in the parcel? No writing. No address. No stamps. Just brown wrapping paper. Drugs? Money? Someone’s head? Oh my days, an actual head. Maybe a cat’s head? There’s someone killing cats near Bristol. Mum had said. Maybe she’s a cat killer. Maybe she has a dead cat in her box? Or a live cat? Or a stolen cat? Or loads of kittens?

No, this is getting silly. She’d not be in trouble for carrying a cat around. It’s definitely drugs. They’re mad for them in America. Maybe if I excuse myself to go to the toilet and lock the cubicle until everything’s done, that would be okay? I’d show my passport.

‘I got confused,’ I’d say. ‘I’m British and on my way to Hollywood.’

Thinking about the box’s contents didn’t help. I needed to control my breathing: in through the nose and out through the mouth. Or was it the other way? I didn’t know! And why hadn’t I put my hand up yet?! Was my breathing suspicious-looking?

I let out a tiny fart. Luckily it was silent.

Where was the responsible adult to tell me what to do? There should be an app. You’d type in your problem and a teacher would reply with the correct decision. Only, I knew the right thing to do – I should tell the police. I should be a good citizen. If they wanted her, she’d have done something bad, right? That’s how it works.

One officer moved up the aisle with the other close behind. It was like the dinner service on the flight over, which was something that felt a lifetime ago. The female cop showed both sides of seats the iPad and all the passengers shook their heads. If someone else had seen her, that would save me a decision. But they’d all been on their phones when we’d got on.

(Meaning maybe all the teachers/parents have been right all along? Phones are bad for society. It didn’t stop them using the things, though.)

‘Hey,’ I hissed at the baseball cap in such a way that if you were looking at me, either in real time or a later CCTV recording, you’d not see my lips moving. ‘Hey!’

But my sleeping neighbour didn’t stir, and the police were now only six rows away.

‘Do you have any trail mix, ma’am?’ an elderly passenger asked the cops and I had no idea what she meant.

But there was hope, I realised, and that hope was the hat. It was pulled so far down over the girl’s face that, because she was turned to me, there’d be no recognising her from the aisle.

I would stay silent. Result. Best decision ever. Because it wasn’t a decision. And I wouldn’t be betraying her or lying to the police. Because I didn’t have it in me to deceive officials twice in one day. And these two were proper cops. With the faces and everything. I mean, the girl on the iPad wasn’t wearing a baseball cap, so …

There was a split second of panic as I wondered what Dad would say if he knew what was happening to his son (me) at this precise moment (are parents telepathic?) and also the decisions made to get here. But it was because of me that she’d hurt her wrist and not grassing her up to the police would kind of mean we were quits, right? It made sense.

The female cop was actually leaning across the girl and into me and showing me the iPad. Its screen was bright and hurt my eyes. Cruel and unusual punishment. The image was something you might see on social media. The girl was smiling but also wincing like the sun was in her eyes.

At the bottom of the picture was a single word.

MISSING.

It looked like a meme gone bad.

‘Is this individual with you?’ asked the female cop, pointing down to the girl. ‘This individual with the … package?’

This wasn’t fair. I hadn’t been expecting an out-and-out question. My throat felt all pink and tiny.

‘I’m sorry,’ I just about said.

‘I didn’t catch that,’ said the male cop.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said.

‘Are you from around here, sir?’ asked the male cop, speaking loud and slow.

The way that police ask questions makes you feel guilty. Something in the tone. Maybe it’s part of their training. And this here now at this moment was how all bad stuff started. I could feel it, the world’s tightening focus and also the bad stuff. I struggled for control of my thoughts and voice.

‘I’ll be the one asking questions,’ said the female cop. ‘Are you from around here, son?’

One deep breath. Through the nose. And relax.

‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m British. And I’m heading for Los Angeles to be in a superhero movie because I won a competition. I was supposed to be on a plane but I missed it and then there weren’t any other planes because of the snow but my attitude is that if I keep my head down and stay out of trouble but stay on the bus, it won’t make a huge amount of difference, so …’

They stared open-mouthed. Eventually the woman spoke.

‘Are you trying to be funny, sir?’

Why do all the police think that? I’m only a kid from Somerset trying to get to Hollywood without upsetting anyone.

‘No.’

I shook my head and felt tears spiking behind my eyes. I should just confess all! Let them arrest me!

Take me away, officers! It’s a fair cop! Yes! It’s her! She’s the one you want!

‘Are we going to be moving any time soon or are we going to be moving any time soon? I’ve got me a dying grandmother to get to,’ shouted a gruff voice from the front of the bus. ‘And the Lord sure ain’t waiting!’

‘Is this individual with you?’ asked the female cop again, nodding to the girl.

‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘She’s British too.’

The cop stared as if she could look into my mind. And if she could, she’d have seen a tornado of confusion. Like, obviously the girl wasn’t British; she was wearing a baseball cap for one thing.

The police officer put a palm to her partner’s back and pushed him on.

‘Stay out of trouble,’ he said, as he stepped to the next line of passengers. ‘They don’t like strangers around these parts.’

I don’t think I breathed again until they’d left the bus and the deep thud of its engine started, sending vibrations throughout the cabin like the crazy nerves shaking my body.

And, through it all, the girl stayed asleep.

Saucy Boy
St Louis, Missouri

We stopped in a place called St Louis, which is pronounced SAINT LEWIS. Snow dusted cars and sidewalks, but it wasn’t as deep as Chicago.

The driver announced that we’d have an hour to eat, if we wanted, in the ‘food court’ inside the St Louis Greyhound station. There were empty seats dotted about the bus now – there must have been stops I’d slept through. And even though it wasn’t even six yet, most remaining passengers were out cold, including the girl. She no longer had her head resting against my shoulder, which meant I could go.

I hadn’t moved so quietly and carefully since creeping downstairs last Christmas morning to squeeze presents. First off, I stood up, my chest pushing against the back of the chair ahead and my head bowed but still scraping against the plastic underside of the overhead lockers. I pulled one leg up, like a spider ballerina, and then placed it delicately between the girl’s.

Although I didn’t touch her, and made no noise whatsoever – even my jeans were silent – she stirred. I froze, waiting until she returned to regular breathing. This wasn’t a great position to be caught in.

A woman walked down the aisle, stopping to turn and look at me and shake her head like I was another example of the state of kids today.

I lifted my other leg and managed to swing it all the way over the girl’s lap and into the aisle. Turning, my backside was now dangerously close to her face. For a second of panic I thought I might overbalance, meaning I’d end up sitting on the girl. My life would be as good as over. I managed to grip a plastic handle on a chair across the aisle and saved myself.

I stood like a stretching dancer, my left arm and right leg forming a perfectly straight line. Was that a bead of sweat running down my forehead? All I needed to do was pull my right leg from her lap and I was free.

‘Kindly get your ass out of my face,’ said the girl, not moving.

I half hopped, half fell and ended up lying face down in the aisle. I apologised and said I hadn’t wanted to wake her.

‘I wasn’t asleep,’ she said, her voice coming from the darkness under the brim of her cap. ‘What’s going down? Apart from you.’

‘We’ve stopped for food. I was going to stretch my legs. Sorry.’

‘Get me a Happy Meal. Chicken nuggets. BBQ sauce.’

‘I haven’t really got …’

Her left hand flicked up. Between her fingers was a twenty-dollar note folded once lengthways.

‘Take it,’ she said. ‘Get yourself something. But don’t forget the BBQ sauce. I love BBQ sauce more than life.’

I took the money, even though it was probably criminal. Her hand returned to the package. She asked what I was waiting for.

I’m not sure I’ve ever been so hungry as I was in the queue for McDonald’s. The ‘food court’ was like one you’d find in service stations off UK motorways: really expensive tiny versions of fast-food chains, the smell of fat hanging in the air like drops of grease in water.

I turned on my phone to check for messages. Nothing came through. Its battery had been at 27 per cent when I’d last checked. It was now at 15 per cent. And it had been switched off.

Maybe batteries deplete faster in America? Because of the foreign electricity? No, that doesn’t work.

After eating, I’d ask the driver if I could get my charger out of the Princess. I mean, that was an entirely reasonable request. No reason for him to think me an idiot or anything.

When my food came, I took it to a free table. Our RS teacher often said we should take joy in the moment. As I unwrapped my cheeseburger, I finally understood what she meant.

Don’t worry about being in a place called Missouri, a word you can’t spell, let alone find on a map. Don’t worry about the girl and the police. Don’t worry about Mum or Dad. Consider only the cheeseburger: the true meaning of life.

And as I opened my mouth to take a bite …

‘You get my BBQ sauce?’

She stood before me. If she’d not been holding her package, she’d have had her hands on her hips for sure.

Yeah, so I’d forgotten the sauce, and there was sighing and eye-rolling and I thought I was about to be sassed to death. Sassocuted.

‘If I give you this package, do you swear to God that you won’t lose it or drop it or whatever other lame British stuff you might do because you’re lame?’

I nodded, my mouth full of cheeseburger. She handed over the package. As she did so, I could see a faint bruise that circled her right wrist like a friendship bracelet. It didn’t look that bad. I mean, I’d prefer she hadn’t fallen over the Princess, but … it obviously wasn’t broken.

She saw where I was looking.

‘It still hurts,’ she said. ‘Like hell. I can’t even be driving myself anywhere now.’

‘Sorry.’

The box was heavier than you’d imagine. It was weighty enough to be a pain to carry everywhere. Especially if you’d hurt your arm. I shook it very gently. Did it rattle? I wasn’t sure. Why hadn’t she left it on the bus? It must contain something massively valuable. Drugs, cash, diamonds. Gulp.

She was soon back with the sauce. And she was quick to recover the package, placing it between her and her food, which meant she had to eat round it.

When finished, she wiped her mouth with a serviette and stared.

‘My name’s Jennifer. Not Jenny. Not Jen. But Jennifer. Don’t forget that.’

‘Jennifer,’ I said. ‘I won’t forget.’

‘Too right you won’t. I’d shake your hand but it’s covered in ketchup, which is totally disgusting. And it’s all around your mouth. Also, you broke my wrist, so, you know, any movement is total agony.’

‘I could get you some …’

‘I’ve got Advil.’

I nodded like I understood. So was she going to tell me what was happening or …

‘What’s your name?’ (She continued talking so I couldn’t answer. She leant forward, hands on the package, voice lowered. She even glanced behind her to check nobody was listening.) ‘Thanks for covering with the police. Appreciated. I thought it was over. You didn’t have to do that. So I could almost forgive you. For breaking my wrist.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘Almost.’

‘I’m Jacob,’ I said. ‘And all this is pretty new to me.’

Nervous laugh.

‘Same.’

I asked the question.

‘Yeah. So. Why are the police after you? I mean, you look too old to be in trouble for running away from home.’ She didn’t reply. ‘So –’ my mind raced through the other questions I wanted to ask – ‘is it what’s in the parcel? Is that why they’re after you?’

She stood from the table. I guess we’ve all got secrets.

‘I’m going to the bathroom,’ she said. ‘If you’ve never ridden Greyhound before, you should do the same. The on-board one gets gross. Where’re you headed?’

‘Hollywood.’

‘No way. All the way to LA? For real? Are you going to be in a movie?’

‘No but really. I am. I won a competition. I had to write a poem about my favourite superhero.’ (Why did I tell her that?) ‘But, you know, I’m not one of those kids.’

I sounded like a five-year-old. She raised a single eyebrow.

‘What kids?’

‘You know, the ones who think it’s all real. Fantasyland. I don’t think it’s real. I don’t camp overnight to get tickets for the release of the new Avengers movie.’

(Lie.)

‘You like superhero stuff?’ I looked to the tray, nodding with the shame of the bullied. ‘That’s lit.’ I looked up. She wasn’t even mocking me. ‘I’m going to LA as well. It’s warmer out there. People are friendlier. I mean, that’s not true, but …’

‘Sounds good,’ I said.

‘What’s the poem?’

I felt an ice-chill travel through my body.

Never ask me about the poem. Especially never ask me to recite it.

‘Nothing. I don’t remember.’

She shrugged. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Be like that.’ She pointed at the package. ‘I’m trusting you to babysit it. Don’t let it out of your sight.’

She hesitated as if, in actual fact, she didn’t trust me. But her bladder must have intervened and so she left, her braids bouncing as she went. ‘Be like that,’ she’d said. If there were anyone being anything, it was her.

She’d left a single fry. I popped it into my mouth, trying not to think about how she was travelling to LA, trying not to admit why I’d lied to the police, trying only to return to the sleepy, safe Jacob of sleepy, safe Somerset.

The Cowboy

‘Howdy.’

The voice came from nowhere, a man materialising from a cowboy film. He stood behind Jennifer’s empty seat, thick fingers gripping the top of the chair. His skin was brown and wrinkled as if he’d spent his whole life burying bodies in the desert. He wore a black cowboy hat pushed slightly back from his forehead. He had a denim jacket buttoned to his chin, which made it look as if he were hiding secrets. And violent ones too.

He eyeballed the parcel. I edged it closer. His eyes followed. He didn’t ask if the seat were free; he didn’t repeat his ‘howdy’. He just stood there.

I remembered the black pick-up I’d seen from the bus. And this was so very much the same guy, the driver. Curling round his tight, thin lips was that dead caterpillar of a moustache. It belonged in the National History Museum.

I looked past his facial hair, to the door to the toilets, praying for Jennifer to return. She seemed like the type to know what to do when tall mute cowboys stood at your table without saying anything.

‘I’ve finished my food,’ I said, smiling like I was looking into the sun, because I had to say something.

‘That I can see,’ he said in as cowboy a voice as you could imagine, especially if you’re from Somerset. ‘Me? I’ve never had much time for French fries. I’m more of a grits man.’

I felt like I should offer him some food, but all that was left was a tiny fragment of lettuce. He didn’t look like he’d enjoy tiny fragments of lettuce. I mean, he wasn’t a rabbit.

‘I like burgers,’ I said, and I don’t know why.

The Cowboy stared.

‘You sound like you’re a long way from home, son.’

And I think he would have continued staring if he hadn’t started coughing. It was a hacking, rattling sound. And as his body bent in two, Jennifer appeared behind him. She froze outside the toilet door. Her face fell as she saw the Cowboy. She recognised him and you could see she wanted to run. But she was tied to that parcel, the one on my table, as securely as a dog to a lead. So, slowly pushing the door open behind her, she shook her head. She drew a line across her neck.

‘Do you want some water?’ I asked, shrugging my shoulders at Jennifer, as the Cowboy’s lungs cracked the air. ‘I could get some.’

Recovering, he noticed that I looked past his shoulder. He turned. But all there was to see was the closing toilet door. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his mouth.

‘You here on your own, son?’

‘I’m on holiday with my British family. We’re British holidaymakers. From Britain.’

I don’t think I’d ever said ‘holidaymakers’ before. It was a word my gran would use when trying to buy the Daily Mail from a Spanish newsagent’s.

‘Uh-huh?’ said the Cowboy. ‘Is that so? Where are your parents? If you called out, could they hear you?’

I smiled in a kind of dentist’s-waiting-room way.

‘They’re in the toilets. Their stomachs.’ I indicated the fast food restaurant. ‘You know. British.’

His eyes fixed on the parcel. He moved to speak but thought better of it. Instead he smiled. You might have expected rotten teeth or ones coated in silver. But they were film-star perfect. How old was he? There was something treelike to him. Like you could work out his age by cutting him open and counting the rings.

‘You’re right. Excuse my … lack of manners. I’m no great conversationalist.’ He touched the brim of his hat. ‘You have yourself a swell time. Enjoy the bus journey. I’ll be seeing you.’

Back on the coach, Jennifer didn’t even let me ask the driver about my phone charger. She rushed me through to my seat with urgent, shaking hands.

‘It’s just that my phone’s at, like, fourteen per cent.’ Sitting now, Jennifer had her head in her hands, her elbows balanced on the parcel. Her legs trembled. I decided to stop talking about batteries. ‘You okay?’

‘What do you think?’ she said.

‘No? I mean, the guy was creepy. Maybe he was just really old. People get weird when they’re old. My gran …’

My voice faded. I was doing it again: nervous talking. I turned to check if there were any free seats nearby. Maybe sitting somewhere else would be a good idea. Jennifer raised her head. Her fingers picked at her nails.

‘The guy works for my grandmother. A fixer. They call him the Cowboy. The police have failed, so now she’s sent him.’

‘The Cowboy? You knew him? Are they real?’

‘Are what real?’

‘Cowboys?’

Jennifer blinked at me.

‘What are you talking about?’

I shook my head.

‘Cowboys. I didn’t realise they were a thing.’

‘Look, there was this time a –’ she did air quotation marks – ‘business associate of my grandmother’s ran off with some money. Took a suitcase on a plane to Hawaii with a fake name, fake ID, everything. Who should be waiting for him as he steps out in Honolulu? The Cowboy. With the business associate’s name on A4 laminated card and everything. You want to know what happened to the business associate?’

‘They killed him?’

‘Worse.’

I laughed. Jennifer didn’t. I decided, like, maybe leaving this was a good idea.

‘He wasn’t expecting you,’ she continued. ‘He held off. But he’s on our trail. It’s only a matter of time now. He was a US marshal back in the day. He knows what he’s doing. You’re just a complication.’

‘I’ve never been called that before.’ Jennifer didn’t react, not even with a half-grin. ‘So what will you do?’

‘I’ll think of something. Don’t sweat. He’s not the problem. Grandmother is the problem.’

‘Why?’

‘You want to know why? I’ll tell you why. You like superheroes – who’s the bad guy from Superman?’

‘Lex Luthor?’

‘Yeah. That’s the dude. Grandmother’s him.’

‘She’s bald?’

‘She’ll be pissed at me running off. And taking this –’ she patted the parcel –‘will have turned her nuclear.’

I’d thought things were bad when I’d missed the flight. Now I’d covered for a girl wanted by the police and found out she was being pursued by some cowboy dude, and had stolen from her scary grandmother, who was also Lex Luthor.

My eyes pricked with hot tears. I turned away from Jennifer. I tried to clear my head. I tried to pretend that everything was okay and I was, like, on a bus to school or something.

‘Did you say you had painkillers?’ I said in a tissue-thin voice. ‘I think my allergies are flaring up.’

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